a flare tainted
by kim-onka
Summary: You have been unmade, but you can be made again. (It should have hurt more.) / borrowed idea / warning: wildly au
1. Chapter 1

Idea by wreckitmaedhros (on tumblr), who not only draws Maedhros with Maleficient-style horns and wings (which is surprisingly awesome), not only let me run with their idea, but _also_ talked it out with me, patiently and in detail. So. Here you are :D

About: AU, experimental, dark. Written in drabbles (this time _really _100 words each).

(Also it's impossible not to go on about fire.)

* * *

**I.**

Emptiness, pain, and a voice.

'What are you, now?'

Nothing. Nothing was left. Nothing but-

'You have been unmade. Picked apart, piece by piece. What burns in your core is laid bare before my eyes-'

-that, somewhere deep, somewhere unreachable, still nagging, even now, when he could not move a muscle, itching at the heart of his aching being, relentlessly tugging-

'-unmade, but you can be made again. I can remake you, put you together again around your burning core-'

-stirring.

'-there is nothing in you I have not seen. You are mine. Accept that, and I shall remake you.'

* * *

**II.**

No.

Unacceptable.

'Yet it is the truth,' whispered the voice, or his own thought, or _that_-

The Oath stirred again, violently, in a spasm of suffering.

_You prayed for death, and it did not come; you did not dare pray for rescue, and none came. Those who abandoned you, you owe nothing. But you swore, and that you owe still; you are forbidden to remain idle._

That. Naught else. Yet-

'Come, and be whole again. Allow me to remake you.'

No.

_Yes._

(It was impossible to recall faces, recall bonds, recall reasons-)

'Come.'

No-

_Yes._

(-only that.)

'Come.'

_Yes._

'Yes.'

* * *

**III.**

Falling. Over and over, from emptiness into emptiness.

There was nothing, for a time, not even memory, not even the weight of yet more shackling words, nothing, except the lack of pain, the numbing relief.

Then the world began to reassemble itself, slowly, piece by piece, unless it was not the world, it was him.

_No one had come._ Hurt. Resentment.

_The Oath. The mission._ Whatever he bond himself with could never bind him more.

And they were here.

So close.

This was a way. The only way. The only hope for any shred of freedom left.

Whatever it took.

* * *

**IV.**

A figure of flame and shadow, circling, snarling, waiting.

Show that you deserved your chance, was the order. Show that you are worth having.

He would.

Slash. Dodge. Turn. Strike-

(He had seen that one before: the lord of Balrogs, in fight and in flight; not so now.)

-Sweep. Stab. Counter-

(_Kill_, whispers a thought, a memory of another time. _Kill. Have vengeance._)

'What's wrong, elf?'

(_Kill him. Kill him, and die._)

-Swiftly. Deftly. Deadly-

'Enough.'

(_Last chance-_)

-Hesitation. Pause.

'You have demonstrated your worth. Now, your reliability.'

He steps back.

(_-lost._)

'Good.'

(_-you are lost._)

'You shall be rewarded.'

* * *

**V.**

It should have hurt more.

All of it.

It should have worried him, how little he felt when it was done; little beyond the bloom of numbing darkness, beyond the touch of alien power.

'And so you are made anew.'

It should have felt worse, to be made into a monster.

It should have been a humiliation, and it was, to be turned into a creature such as this.

Repulsive. Not an elf anymore. They would run screaming.

_And they will._

'I must say you were excellent raw material.'

It should have scared him, how grimly satisfying the thought felt.

* * *

**VI.**

He remembered standing aside from fire, the all-consuming blaze, and it was increasingly difficult, now, to remember why.

It was the last thing that was beautiful, fire; and limitlessly powerful in its beauty. Why would he ever turn away?

Now he would sow fire wherever he went, fire tinted with shadows, and all the more mesmerizing for it; intoxicating.

He would watch the flames paint their inferno from above, and those who saw him would flee in terror, _demon, _they would say, _monster_,_ winged_ _horror, horned fiend._

What were they? Nothing.

It would be interesting, though, when _they_ saw him.

* * *

_TBC_


	2. Chapter 2

**VII.**

He had been waiting for this.

The air of utter horror, beyond even fright; the spark of recognition; his own reflection in the elf's eyes; he regarded it all with cold fascination.

'Cease this whimpering,' he snarled, lifting the trembling elf by the throat. 'You will not be hurt. Who rules over the Noldor?'

_Kanafinw__ë_. Kanafinwë was king.

Almost involuntarily, he bared his teeth.

'Look closely,' he commanded. 'Look, and tell your king.'

_Tell him what his complacency had forced me to choose._

_Tell him of the shadows in my eyes, of the collar round my neck._

'Tell him _everything._'

* * *

**VIII.**

Maglor had thought himself prepared for the worst.

Or rather, he had thought the worst already upon him: shame, contempt, knowledge; wordless accusations, screams in his mind.

This had been his choice, and he had told himself he would bear it, there was no other way.

He stared at the soldier.

He had thought – what, in his selfish delusions? That it would be _pain_, and that it was not the worst to be found in Angband; that it could also be _enslavement,_ and_ destruction_, which almost meant _death_, which almost, almost meant _relief._

Not _fealty. _Not willing service.

Not Maitimo.

* * *

**IX.**

'Maitimo would never-'

'He is Maitimo no longer.'

'Kanafinwë said-'

'Kanafinwë is both foolish and a traitor of his closest kin. As was your former friend, who is lost to us all.'

Fingon's shoulders fell. Fingolfin continued pacing.

'And this impudent coward has the nerve to call himself King of the Noldor!'

'We should have done something.'

'You tried. Which is more than any of his brothers did.'

'What of it, when I failed? He does not even know. He thinks we all abandoned him.'

'As he abandoned us. And now, betrayed us.'

'He is one of us!'

'No longer.'

* * *

**X.**

Curufin stood before his brother, his expression studiedly reserved, words carefully steel.

'_You_ are the king. Y_ou_ must decide upon a course of action.'

'I may not remain king for long. There has been unrest-'

'Which is precisely what we need to counteract, elsewise Nolofinwë might do it for us.'

'So Nolofinwë wishes for me to surrender the crown.'

'As you know well.'

'I had been keeping it for Maitimo.'

The younger brother bridled.

'Do you think you alone grieve? He is not coming back, and could not lead us if he did. He is lost.'

'I know,' said Maglor.

* * *

**XI.**

'You would sit here and play king, while your brother-'

Despite himself, Maglor flinched.

'-yes, your brother, little as it seems to matter to you! He taunts us, naming himself our rightful ruler and you but a usurper, and proclaims himself innocent of your betrayal-'

'Of that he truly is innocent.'

Fingolfin paused, startled.

'How so?'

'He stood aside.'

The elder elf narrowed his eyes.

'You do know you are not helping your case.'

Indeed.

_Why mention it now?_

_It is the truth._

He felt so very weary.

'Rest assured I will not leave it like that, Kanafinwë.'

Very well.

* * *

**XII.**

The sword rested against Maglor's throat.

'Do not look away. _Do not look away._ Is this not what you came to see?'

'Nelyo-'

Blood trickled down the elf's neck, a thin rivulet.

'You were ever audacious. I have no interest in your excuses.'

'I have none.'

'Good.'

Silence.

The horrified revulsion was evident in Maglor's eyes, and he stared on, savouring it, drinking in the dread.

'What has he _done_ to you?'

'Nothing you did not consent to.'

'And you? Did _you_ consent?'

Hesitation. Anger.

'What choice do you think I had?'

'I only see the choice you made, Maitimo.'


	3. Chapter 3

This is, in certain aspects, quite a thought-out project, and as such it comes with not one but _two_ lists of names. And so: Black Speech name by wreckitmaedhros, Sindarin names by me. (Okay, so I'm only using three. But we do have two lists. Marvel.)

* * *

**XIII.**

He glared at the elf, who stood unflinching.

When the word came out, it was as a growl.

'_Disappear_.'

'No.'

'Get lost before I lose patience.'

'Kill me, then. Have vengeance. Or have me taste your fate.'

'You know not what you speak of.'

'No, I do not.' Maglor's face creased, and for the briefest moment his composure seemed about to crack; and it would have felt right, vilely, sickly _right_ to watch this elf fracture in pain-

-but the moment passed, fleeting, and only the elf's eyes betrayed the intensity of his anguish.

'I do not know. Tell me.'

* * *

**XIV.**

Hesitation.

_Tell him. Make him suffer-_

'I _told_ you to disappear.'

'This happened when I left you. I am not leaving you again.'

'Yes you are. I do not want you underfoot.'

Maglor stepped forward. The blade slid along the side of his neck, leaving a shallow cut.

'Return with me, brother.'

The sheer unfeasibility of this request stalled his anger, albeit briefly.

'Fool,' he spat. 'Since you persist in this farce, I order you. Leave.'

This time it was Maglor who hesitated.

'Should you change your mind, find me,' he said at last. 'No matter what. Find me, Maitimo.'

* * *

**XV.**

_Why?_

Why had he let this elf go?

_It was his fault, for abandoning me-_

He had craved to see this elf suffer, and he had.

He had longed to witness the fear, and despair, and pain of this elf, and he had.

Yet there had been something-

-unsettling about this elf, about his poise, about his forlorn tenacity.

Something harrowing.

_He suffers enough, knowing-_

_He is weak-_

_He has killed elves, too-_

_They are disruptive, thus useful-_

-excuses.

_The Oath connects us-_

-an excuse.

There was something-

-_something_ he yearned for, still, in the knowledge that they remained, somewhere.

* * *

**XVI.**

'Someone tried to cut your throat, Your Majesty?'

Maglor started and looked up, but his eyes were unseeing; he raised his fingers to his neck.

'You would be wise not to disappear like that, brother. We were concerned for your safety.'

Celegorm.

_I would have left you all, without a word-_

He shuddered.

_Nolofinw__ë__ is right about me._

'Well? Where have you been?'

Maglor opened his mouth, and found himself choking on the words.

'Kano?'

'I s-saw him, Tyelko.'

'_What?_'

'I saw Maitimo.'

'Are you _insane_?'

'Probably.'

Pause.

'…And?'

Maglor shook his head, and buried his face in his hands.

* * *

**XVII.**

_Maitimo_.

This had been one of the last pieces lost: his name.

Taken away, or surrendered; it was unclear, now, and he told himself it mattered not.

No new name was needed for what he was now: dark flare among shadows, accursed; left with nothing but a mission, mindless of anything but his aim.

He heard the terrified whispers of elves, and they named him _Eglaniar_, blood-forsaking and by blood forsaken; and also _Delunor_, death-heralding flame.

The (_other, fellow_) creatures of Melkor would say _Golugshakh_, Noldor-lord, and flee from his scowl, sniggering.

Only this elf would now call him _Maitimo._

* * *

**XVIII.**

'Because you think yourself unsuited to reign, you mean to crown _Nolofinw__ë_?'

'You mistake my motives.'

'You want to cede power and with it, responsibility!'

'Enough of it.'

'You would dismiss me too easily for one who dislikes ruling, Kano!'

Maglor narrowed his eyes at Celegorm's tone.

'Whether or not I am king, I am still head of this House.'

'You are, aye. Yet you would bow to Nolofinwë and run off to consult with the Enemy's servants!'

'When I ought to bow to _you_, is that it? No. You owe me allegiance. And I will have it of you.'


	4. Chapter 4

I'm still not sure when this happened canonically, but since it's an AU anyway I may as well…

* * *

**XIX.**

And so it had come to this, at last.

No further delay.

'Summon our brothers,' Maglor ordered Celegorm shortly. 'At once.'

The younger elf hesitated fractionally, gave a curt nod, and departed.

Maglor watched him go.

_-consult with the Enemy's servants-_

His lips twisted.

High King of the Noldor meant to consult with no-one.

The power and responsibility were his, and his to cede, if he decided, and not Celegorm's to claim.

It even surprised him, mildly, dully, to realise how he relished it. How fiercely he was prepared to fight for his rights, if only to surrender them.

Ironically.

* * *

**XX.**

'It is not for you to tell me what I can or cannot do. Any of you. And you would do well not to ascribe my intentions to feelings of _personal incapability_, either. It is not about me evading responsibility. It is about us accepting it.'

_For so many things._

'Has it mayhap escaped your attention that we are losing not only support, but also trust, even of our own people?'

_Some say we answer to Morgoth, or eventually shall._

'I lead us. Nolofinwë could lead the Noldor.'

Indignant anger.

Scornful acceptance.

Cold fury.

Reluctant understanding.

'My decision is final.'

* * *

**XXI.**

The attack had been unexpected.

Although by this time they should have, perhaps, learnt to expect the unexpected.

And there he was, Argon, son of Fingolfin, in the heat of the battle, in a rapidly thinning circle of elves, drawn away from his family, fighting with increasing desperation.

And then he saw, and started; despite himself, despite knowing better, he started, for a moment too long.

_Cousin-_

Pain.

Pain.

Argon lashed out, swiftly, but it was too late, hurting-

_Cousin._

He fell.

'Cousin!'

A brief glance, condescending, lingering but for a moment-

'Maitimo-!'

Blood.

His cousin turned away.

_Pain-_

Nothing.

* * *

**XXII.**

The Noldorin prince fell.

_Arak__á__no-_

The Noldorin prince fell, and he turned away, but felt the elf's fading gaze bear into him.

_-cousin_-

A barest flicker of an emotion so alien, now, one he had considered abandoned so completely, that he cringed, inwardly, appalled at its presence-

Yet soon the emotion was drowned out by a wave of anger, burning, dark fury, for how had this elf _dared_ call him, call that name, call for help, when _he_ had called for naught, and not even death was granted to him, and now-

Now, both orcs and elves fled before him.

* * *

**XXIII.**

Not many who had seen Argon die returned. But some did.

The expression on Fingolfin's face was terrible.

Fingon looked pale and thoroughly exhausted. Aredhel had her arms wrapped around Turgon; it was impossible to tell which of them was shaking more violently.

'Arakáno… Arakáno…'

'He fell for certain? There is no doubt?' Fingon asked quietly, hesitant to voice the thought.

Aredhel gasped.

Turgon shook free of her embrace, stood to confront his brother.

'How can you- Do not… to that monster… _Do not-_'

Fingon took a step back.

'I never-'

'Yes, you did! You-'

'_Please_,' the father said, softly.

* * *

**XXIV.**

'I have not the patience for you, Kanafinwe. This has lasted too long-'

'That is why I am here.'

'Is it?'

The elder elf's voice was cutting; Maglor was unfazed, set in his purpose.

'I come to offer you this.'

Fingolfin stared.

In Maglor's hands, in an ornate casket, the crown shone lustrously.

_My half-brother's stubborn heir has seen reason. Although-_

'You give me nothing I could not have taken myself,' he said curtly.

'I give you a chance at peace, and ask the same of you, Nolofinwë, son of Finwë.'

And Maglor bowed.

(How little comfort this victory brought.)


	5. Chapter 5

**XXV.**

The news rang far and wide.

What Kanafinwë had usurped, what he had retained and not returned, he had to surrender.

_He is king no longer._

But of course; this elf who had traded family loyalty for comparative safety would readily sell the birthright of his House for relative peace

_His_ birthright.

_Play the ruler in my stead and step down the moment uncle glares in your direction, lest you overexert yourself in the attempt to reconcile the Noldor, how very _convenient _for you, little Kano._

If it was with satisfaction or anger he thought thus, he could not tell.

* * *

**XXVI.**

The sons of Fëanor (_five, only five now_) watched Fingolfin, the crown firmly on his temples, watched him address the crowd, tall and proud and _victorious_ in his royal glory, triumphant, hopeful, adored.

They had knelt, they had _sworn_, and there was not one among them who had not thought, if only for the briefest moment, _it was not meant to be this way._

Maglor had said it was necessary, and perhaps it had been.

He had said the alternatives were all worse, and perhaps they were.

He had not said how sorely _wrong_ it would feel, but it did.

* * *

**XXVII.**

'We wish to make it known to all that we do not consider the erstwhile heir, Nelyafinwë son of Fëanáro, to be our kin after his most shocking betrayal, and indeed we ecognize no rights or claims regarding his former position-'

Maglor closed his eyes.

'What _were_ you expecting?' Curufin hissed next to him. 'If he recognized Nelyo's rights, this entire affair would be invalid from the start, and if _you_ had-'

'-and we oblige any and all to spare neither hesitation nor mercy-'

'Good luck,' muttered Celegorm.

It was obvious, yes.

Maglor simply did not want to hear it.

* * *

**XXVIII.**

It was a delicate subject, that of their eldest brother, and seldom touched upon, by an unspoken agreement born of shared sorrow and shame.

It was a wound wide open, still bleeding, despite the efforts to sear it close.

And even though the brothers were all too aware of the political implications, instinctively they felt the cut close to heart, most of all, deeply personal.

It was foolish, of course; and yet to hear it spoken of so openly, to hear their fallen brother publicly denounced – it was an intrusion. A humiliation.

Or, more accurately, yet another, even further humiliation.

* * *

**XXIX.**

'I have been watching you.'

He turned, alerted, but careful to keep his expression studiously indifferent; it was unwise to disclose anything in Angband (_as he had learnt, amidst much pain-_)

Mairon. Lord of Wolves.

'Our pet lflings. It is rather amusing, the way you think you are so clever. So important, too.'

Silence.

It was unwise to take the bait (_he had learnt that, as well_).

The Maia moved closer, regarding him lazily.

'Your show of abandoning that elf was pleasant to watch, I admit, and yet…'

He leaned in.

'You glance in their direction just slightly too often.'

* * *

**XXX.**

The jewels _burnt._

Brightly. Painfully. Sweetly. Unbearably.

Blessed so no evil could lay hands on them without hurt, the Silmarilli were; Melkor himself they burnt, and their light pained creatures who chose to dwell in darkness.

And him.

_They were his._

He did not need to see them to be aware of them, always, _always _blazing in his mind, so close, so _close_ and yet unreachable (_for now_).

Upon Melkor's brow.

It was inseparable, it seemed: the one who wielded the Silmarilli, be they creator or thief, held the end of his leash, be it of love or of destruction.


	6. Chapter 6

**XXXI.**

The triumph of Fingolfin, come in the hour of grief, eased not the sorrow, rendered the loss none the lighter to bear; his House mourned still, the victory felt vacant.

And yet there was the dark satisfaction, somewhere deep in the High King's heart, of having wrenched away the power from his treacherous kin, as if in subjugating the House of Feanor, he could reach the one no longer counted among their number.

The demon of Morgoth who had once been a Noldo; the monster who had left Argon to die, hardly sparing him a glance.

_His blood will flow._

* * *

**XXXII.**

'He means to launch an attack on Angband. To seal it off, kill anything that crawls out,' said Celegorm.

'I know.'

'And you, Makalaurë, told us to obey him.'

'I did.'

'What will you tell us now?'

Scornful. Challenging.

'Now?'

'Spare us,' said Caranthir. 'You understand perfectly well.'

'We cannot-' Amrod began.

'We _cannot_ afford to disobey, courtesy of Kanafinwë,' drawled Curufin.

'Were you intending to?'

'I rather think _you_ were.'

'Nolofinwë,' Caranthir interjected, 'craves revenge for Arakáno, and lacks the subtlety to employ us in its execution.'

'In that case we merely _stand aside_?'

'_I_ do not meant to.'

* * *

**XXXIII.**

_No matter what_, he had said.

_Neither hesitation nor mercy_, the one he had accepted as High King had said.

Already irreconcilable.

'Are you proposing treason?'

'And you kinslaying?'

'Either way, nothing new.'

Curufin smiled mirthlessly.

'I would rather slay Nelyo myself than watch Nolofinwë or any of his ilk spill his blood. It is us he betrayed. He is ours.'

Despair.

'I would not count,' said Celegorm, 'on him struggling with similar dilemmas.'

_Not if Argon's death is any indication._

Pure despair.

'We fight against the Enemy,' said Maglor, with an air of finality. 'We do what we must.'

* * *

**XXXIV.**

And so the Noldor, united at last (_almost, almost all_), and if not of one heart, then at least at one purpose (_almost, almost every_) clashed against their Enemy and his servants (_willing or not_), and pushed them back into the depths of their nest (_into the darkness that had spouted them_).

And with them, the one the House of Finwë no longer recognized as one of their own (_not recognized, but felt, and knew him to be_).

He caught their eyes, one after another, eyes that sought him out, and held their gazes unflinchingly, challenging, deriding.

Loathing.

Accusing.

Contemptuous.

* * *

**XXXV.**

And furious, and resentful (and _envious,_ and _longing_, and all the more livid for that).

_Let them see. Let them all see._

There was Nolofinwë, pale and murderous; there was Turukáno, grief engraved deeply into his features, fueling his daring; Findekáno, focused and precise, and deadly.

Finadaráto, swift and bold; Aikanáro, fierce and resolute; Angaráto, grim and determined.

And the little brothers, they whom his eyes sought out, watching for shock, for pain, for guilt.

For defiance (_and it was there, too_).

Yet time had not come for him to engage any of them; and so he taunted them instead.

* * *

**XXXVI.**

The gates shut, and suddenly it was done; guards were positioned along the borders, and Siege commenced.

Fingolfin declared victory, and although no one had reached the elf-demon whose name they no longer spoke, Argon's blood had been washed down in a flood of orcish gore.

The Enemy was weakened, restrained; Middle-Earth lay before them, as vast and beautiful as they had imagined, offering freedom they had dreamt of it in the dark days of trial.

No that all wounds could be healed.

Not that all could grievances could be forgotton.

Yet there was a life to be lived, here.


	7. Chapter 7

**XXXVII.**

It was a relief to depart from Mithrim – this place that had been the scene of much anguish and so many painful dilemmas – at last.

It was a relief to finally set forth; and was that not why they had left for Endórë? To strive for greatness and glory in free realms uncontrolled by the Valar?

And yet it felt strange, almost wrong, to leave Mithrim, the place that had been the scene of soul-wrenching guilt and so many difficult decisions.

Somehow, it almost felt like desertion; as if too much of them had to be left behind in Mithrim.

* * *

**XXXVIII.**

Envoys returned from a hidden kingdom, bearing a message warmly welcoming kin and coldly asserting dominion, requesting it recognized.

Fingolfin listened with an unreadable expression, then glanced over at the other children of Finarfin, who stood calm and proud, the sons of Feanor, who variously appeared indignant or kept a carefully neutral face, and his own children, pensively expectant.

Caranthir began to speak angrily, but fell back to sullen silence at Maglor's quiet reprimand.

'There are lands enough in Endórë for this king who is kin to our kin to retain his realms and for us to establish our own.'

* * *

**XXXIX.**

'You are content with the position you have brought us down to, I presume.'

'Do not start again.'

'I am not,' Caranthir snarled. 'You have not answered to my, or should I say our, satisfaction even once. You prefer to invoke seniority and act indignant that we would question your perceived authority.'

'I am forced to agree,' Curufin spoke up. Celegorm nodded his agreement. 'However, at this point I do not believe you have substantial reasons at all, not beyond generalized guilt and deference to circumstances.'

'Is that so?' Maglor demanded, icily.

'Yes. If you believe otherwise, you are deluded.'

* * *

**XL.**

'And now that we can finally leave this thrice-damned camp, you intentionally place yourself at a strategic disadvantage. I could assume it is out of responsibility to our people,' it was clear that Celegorm meant the Noldor, 'but I know you too well.'

'Perhaps you do not, after all. Note, at least, that I do not demand any of you reside with me.'

The younger brother snorted.

'As if. I look forward to being relieved of your eagerness to quench any signs of ambition for our House we might exhibit.'

With that, he left, Curufin following, Caranthir not far behind.

* * *

**XLI.**

Suppresing a sigh, Maglor turned to Amrod. The youngest brother seemed to have barely paid attention; yet feeling Maglor's eyes on him, raised his head.

'What do you expect from me?' he asked at length. 'Must I side with you or Tyelkormo? You are within your rights; however, I cannot entirely disregard his words either.'

'What do you intend?'

'I do not know.'

The lost note in his voice touched a chord in Maglor's mind.

_He was not the youngest, as I was not the eldest. We are alike._

Lost.

'Come with me.' Not an order. An offer.

'I shall.'

* * *

**XLII.**

The Noldorin princes swarmed over the land, reveling in their naïve sense of safety.

_Foolish,_ he thought grimly, _to ever feel safe._

A temporary withdrawal, to ease the Noldor into incaution; to led them to believe they were strong before crushing them; to let them know hope before eradicating it.

He should know; had the same not been done to him?

_Foolish, to think there is an escape while Melkor dwells in Arda, Melkor, who sees into the minds of lesser beings and laughs at their impotence._

Utterly foolish; and yet, even this blind respite of self-delusion he envied them.


	8. Chapter 8

**XLIII.**

Wide and far and rich and abundant was Endorë, and the Noldor found the freedom they had sought, the yearning for which had drawn the out of Aman; there were elven realms whose rulers answered to no-one save the High King.

(That was what they had wanted, and this was what they were prepared to accept, if only to save any worth from their ordeals.)

There was not much comment on Maglor's choice of residence; one or two raised eyebrows, skeptical glances, contemptuous expressions.

None of it voiced, barring several veiled allusions.

(They knew; and it was not spoken of.)

* * *

**XLIV.**

Except it _was_ out of a sense responsibility, thought Maglor, remembering his brother's – his _heir's_, and he would never have another, not without–

–remembering his brother's words.

It _was_ an act born of a sense of responsibility, even if in places it blurred into a sense of guilt (was it not the same, almost, almost, when you had made all the wrong decisions); and it _was_ a responsibility towards the Noldor, even if not towards them _alone._

'You would establish your abode this close to the Enemy's fortress. Do as you please, Kanafinwë. I shall not forbid it.'

'Thank you.'

* * *

**XLV.**

Before they set out, Fingon came, amidst the turmoil of preparations

'May I speak to you?'

'Always, cousin.'

'Truly?' A smile. 'I wish not to part ways with you in enmity, or appearance of enmity. Your words are a comfort.'

'I have no cause for enmity towards you; the opposite, if at all.' Pause. 'I heard of how you-'

'That is of no matter now. I merely…' Hesitation. 'Do not torture yourself overmuch, Kanafinwe. It will aid no one.'

Silence.

Again, the smile.

'And I shall attempt the same. May the stars watch over you, cousin.'

'And you likewise, Findekáno.'

* * *

**XLVI.**

The Noldorin princes had their temporary respite, yet the forces of Melkor never rested, never slept; the sounds of metal clashing against metal never faded (_nor did the screams_), the fires never died, the work never stopped.

There was naught else here, after all; nothing but the preparation, the strive to perfect the power of destruction; and the single-mindedness was in parts hollow, compelling, and grimly adequate.

_Naught else._ For anything else had already been destroyed (_if not thoroughly; that would have come too close to mercy_).

And the same awaited all (_awaiting; for them – hope, for him – torment_).

* * *

**XLVII.**

The _screams_.

That was another matter.

They were –

_annoying, _most of all.

They were a reminder, grating at an empty (_nearly empty_) space where there ought to be something yet was not, they were too _true_ in the dark and in the void and in memory.

(_They were _still _screaming-_)

He had tried not to hear them, to no avail.

He had tried waiting for them to _cease_ – to no avail.

(_Some stopped screaming, eventually. Some screamed without sound._)

Idly _listening_ was unbearable (_as anything here_)-

In the end, there was no other way but to _make_ them scream.

* * *

**XLVIII.**

'You never did tell me,' Amrod stated one evening, matter-of-factly, and Maglor looked at him in question.

'What happened when you left that day. Before your abdication. You confided in Tyelkormo alone, and he only said-'

'That I had run off to consult with enemies, I recall. Did you believe him?'

'I did not.' The answer was immediate and came so naturally, in a quiet, doubtless tone, that Maglor felt oddly reassured.

'And rightly,' he said. 'I did not consult. I wished to… ascertain. Witness. I felt it was my duty to do so.'

'And did you?'

'Yes. I saw.'


	9. Chapter 9

**XLIX.**

It was a belated confession, in truth, superfluous now. They had all seen. There could be no doubt now, no hope of the like he had foolishly harboured.

This rendered the tale slightly, only slightly, easier to relay (_there was still - he had been their king, and he had left them, and forgotten them_) and so Maglor relayed, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the frame of his harp.

'And you left,' said Amrod, after a while.

'Yes.'

'With but a shallow cut in your neck.'

'Yes.'

'And you returned to us, unharmed.'

'Yes.'

Silence.

'I do not understand.'

* * *

**L.**

It was easy (_too easy_), once he had begun; and they _screamed_ at mere sight of him, soon enough.

It was –

_Why not? Why not hurt them, even if it was not them he wanted to hurt, in truth; yet they were still _elves_, they dared remain elves, here, in that place, and for that alone-_

– enticing, beguiling, _thrilling._

And some of them _knew_, and called to him, and begged, and cursed, and wailed, but it was not him (_any more_) they were calling to, and he snarled in anger, and _hurt _them for it_, _more, and _more_ still.

_Pathetic._

* * *

**LI.**

Then there was the art of _reshaping._

Which was not the same as _remaking; _these captives were being not so much unmade as relentlessly twisted, not so much picked apart as grinded whole, not so much coerced as bluntly consumed.

These were not worth the effort (_not as _he _had been_); and so they ended up warped, deformed parodies (_not as _he _had done_); and he could tell himself, watching them, that he had not been reduced to _this_, that had retained _more_ – enough (_little enough_) to yield the remains.

(_Then there was this sickening fear that he would yet-_)

* * *

**LII.**

Of course, there was more to this _awaiting_.

There were different uses he could be put to, he was informed.

Training the soldiers (_the thralls, the slaves already broken, all of them the same, almost, almost the same as him_), in combat as well as in obedience (a _lesson learnt well_).

Scouting, at times; watching, from behind a veil of shadow.

And more.

And more.

'Come, elfling,' said Mairon, who had once been a Maia of Aule; his voice distinctly derisive, countenance smug. 'You will be forging weapons under my supervision. I understand your teacher had been no mere smith.'

* * *

**LIII.**

_No mere smith indeed._

The hands, despite having been broken and reshaped, remembered.

The skill, never tremendous, yet deeply ingrained, took over.

The memory, for all it had been shredded and blurred and buried, surfaced.

Barely recognisable, painfully vivid; he ignored it (_even as it guided his arms, fingers, flashed in his vision_).

This, too, was an act of destruction, not of creation (_never of creation_); the work of his (_forced_) hands, meant to devastate and be devastated (_never to be cherished, never truly appreciated_), was slowly, steadily, wrecking something which should have died long ago.

_Simply one more betrayal._

* * *

**LIV.**

Amrod was restless; and he had thought he craved rest, craved peace, yet it was becoming apparent that peace – if they were at peace, even – or peace within the family – if there was – did not entail closure.

Not for Amrod (_whose dreams were of fires, and charred skin, mixed with horns, and shadows_); and certainly not for Maglor, whom he had followed (_alone, where was he to go?_)

He would seek refuge in the woods (_hunting, he would say_); yet the woods' quiet felt oppressive (_this close_) and offered neither comfort nor forgetfulness.

It was comprehension Amrod sought, relentlessly, instead.


End file.
